


Edge of Snow

by arrow (esteefee)



Category: due South
Genre: Angst, First Time, M/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-03
Updated: 2009-07-03
Packaged: 2017-10-02 10:24:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/arrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fraser is grieving too many losses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Edge of Snow

**Author's Note:**

> Caution/warning is in end notes.

The fire is dying down, but it little matters. Soon it will be time to break camp and begin the last leg of our adventure. By this time tomorrow we should be eating breakfast in a hotel in Yellowknife.

From there, Ray will be flying home. That is to say, Chicago.

Spring is coming, and as we travel southward we must carefully negotiate the broken fields. Shortly we will run out of snow and be reduced to carrying what we can, minus the sled. To forestall this, I've decided to take us on a tangent to Steve Madera's place, which is sixty kilometers outside the city. I contacted him from the last town, and he has agreed to kennel the team for me until Sergeant Frobisher can retrieve them.

I hesitated before contacting Steve. He was a protégé of my father's, and incidentally the man who took my virginity when I was eighteen. It has been almost twenty years, but I've never forgotten it. Nor forgiven it, really. He was ten years older, very experienced, and my confusion, my fears, my needs, were meaningless to him.

I played with fire, and I was burned.

Steve will take in the team and give us a ride into town. Once there, I anticipate we will spend the afternoon and evening 'decompressing', as Ray calls it. And then he will leave.

Ray _will_ leave. Of that, there is no doubt in my mind, much as I wish it otherwise. But we have delayed it as long as we could, playing like children in the snow long after the night shadows have crept up and stolen the warmth of the sun.

It's time to come in.

During this interlude, I have successfully avoided thinking about the events in the mineshaft as being too painful to contemplate without necessary privacy. But here on the verge of losing Ray, my grief lies dark and heavy, a cold weight pressing on my chest, unmitigated by the glowing embers of the fire.

"Hey."

Ray's voice is soft, but penetrates my musings. He sounds puzzled, a little worried.

"I should tend to the team." But I don't rise. Instead, I pour another cup of coffee and listlessly poke the fire. Ray is leaving. Everyone leaves. I know, in a way, that I am being irrational; after all, it is I who am not returning to Chicago. That was the intersecting point of our existence together. It is impossible here. Ray cannot be a policeman here. This separation is my fault.

And yet, and yet. This is my home. And now that my parents are truly gone—both of them—I don't know that I can survive any longer in that alien place. This is my only home. It is empty, and cold, but it is all I have left of who I am.

My eyes smart with a chill, and I realize to my dismay that they have filled with tears, fast growing cold. I blink them back hastily.

"Fraser, what—?"

"What do you think of the Afterlife, Ray?" I hear myself ask.

"I don't," Ray says, sounding surprised at the turn in conversation. "I mean, I don't think there is one. When it's over, it's over. Life is pretty fucking complicated, but death sure ain't."

"You're wrong." My voice is rough, and I clear my throat. It suddenly strikes me hard, just what it is I have lost—am losing. It's like a fist to my gut. My father, though irritating, overbearing and hardly overtly affectionate, was at least present, if only in spirit. At least he cared enough to haunt me. But now he and my mother are both gone, and soon Ray will be as well.

My emotions are foolish, really. I have always considered myself accustomed to being alone, reveling in it and my self-sufficiency. When did the habit of solitude become a bear trap? But I know the answer to that. He sits across the fire from me, the glinting blue of his eyes betraying concern at the turn of the conversation.

I rub the moisture from my eyes. "Maybe..." It is crazy, the thoughts I am having, and the desire that rises in my throat. Impossibly, I find myself saying, "Ray, about Chicago...do you really have to go back? Do you think you could...stay?"

Incredulity, followed by laughter, and then a host of emotions chase each other across Ray's face before he bursts out with, "You're _unhinged_! Fraser—"

"Yes, well, of course. We already knew that, didn't we?" The automatic response falls easily from my lips, and I jump up to go tend to the dogs. The shock possessing my body feels like a sudden wound.

I remember a peculiar revelation that came to me when Geiger's knife plunged into my leg. What amazed me was how easily my blood left me, almost joyously, the deep, bright flow, fast, eager, running hotly from my body. And how I sank and grew smaller with its loss, feeling hardly any pain in that moment, only a childishly comforting weakness, as if everything had been taken from my hands. No more responsibility at all.

I feel that now, thinking about the expression on Ray's face. As if the idea of the two of us—

Patently absurd. Of course. What on earth had possessed me to ask?

Dief's rough bark pulls me out my daze, and I bend to shake out his meal. I'd tended to the staking without conscious thought, but reached the end of one task without making the jump to another. My hands, my lips, feel numb, but not from the cold.

When I return to the center of camp, Ray is already breaking down the tent. He stops when he hears my crunching steps in the snow and turns to face me, but I cannot meet his eyes.

"Fraser, I'm sorry...I...you took me by surprise—"

"It's quite all right, Ray. Do you need help with the tent?" I have reestablished my calm. I'm proud that I don't sound the slightest bit angry, even though I am—not at Ray; rather, my anger is directed at the circumstances of my life that seem to demand I remain always alone.

And truly, I could not, for his sake, wish him to stay. The depth of my feelings for him should have demanded I remain silent. Ray has a life. It is time for him to return to it.

"No, I'm good," he says quietly.

"Good." I say nothing more, just go to the sled and start packing up. I clean the breakfast utensils in the snow, the task calming me further. Ray brings the tent and wordlessly begins to strap it down. I go and fetch the dogs.

As we travel the last kilometers of our journey, I let the snow fill my eyes, and am entranced with the empty, white peace of it. As we get closer to Steve's cabin, more of my concentration is needed to plot an unbroken path, and my earlier mood leaves me.

This is where I belong, after all.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&lt;&lt;&lt;

Ray raises his hand, pointing ahead, but I have already seen the small dot of Steve's cabin on the horizon. As we near, I begin to feel more anxious. After the unfortunate end of our relationship, we met only infrequently and by chance at RCMP gatherings of one type or another. Then he was forced to retire early due to injuries sustained in the field. It has been three years since I last saw him.

He must have heard the dogs approaching, because the door to his cabin opens when we are still some distance out. He stands waiting as we approach, his posture casual. I have ample time to examine him, and am surprised by how unchanged he appears, at a distance, from the object of my youthful adoration. It is only as we draw closer that I see how bitterness has carved the lines of his face. He is thinner, too, but his hair is still as bright, shockingly blond. I remember it as silk between my fingers.

He is still handsome, but I feel none of the desire I once felt, only a gut-clenching wariness and a dull, ancient hurt.

"Steven," I say loudly in greeting over the chorus of the dogs, who have scented Steve's team in the barn.

His face cracks in a lightning-fast grin. "Benton. You look like a wild man." He grabs Dief's halter, but it isn't necessary, of course. Dief is the perfect lead, and has already snapped out at the rest of the dogs, quieting them. Steve lets go.

"I'd like you to meet my partner from Chicago, Ray Kowalski." I wave my arm at Ray, who is extracting himself rather stiffly from the confines of the sled.

"Good to meet ya," Ray says, holding out a hand. Steve takes it and helps haul Ray up, then moves toward me.

I step down, brushing the crust of wake-snow from my legs as an excuse to create a circle of space from his approach. He waits impatiently, and then barrels me into a hug as I straighten. I extricate myself as gracefully as I can. The contact is no more welcome than an advance from Francesca.

It surprises me how little I feel toward him. The last time I saw him, at my father's funeral, in spite of everything, I'd felt an old spark of nostalgic longing.

Of course, that was before I met Ray.

"I bet you guys are hungry. Let's get the team in so I can feed you up."

"Now _that's_ something I can get behind," Ray says enthusiastically.

We get the team unharnessed and kenneled. There's a moment of awkwardness when I explain to Steve that Dief is a friend, not a sled dog by nature, and in fact, a half-wolf. The bustle of doing covers the very real discomfort I feel being in Steve's presence for a protracted period. I'm reminded, every time he tilts his head in that familiar way, or sends me a glance, of the folly of my youth. Also, I'm a little apprehensive of what he will reveal to Ray, although I knew, before I made the decision to bring us here, that exposure was a very real possibility. However, there hardly seems to be any point in worrying about Ray learning of my past, since this day marks the last of our partnership.

As I feared, Steve is a little too solicitous of me during lunch. His hand lingers on my back when he is serving me the musk-ox stew he prepared, and he's arranged the table so he can be seated beside me.

I feel Ray's eyes on us more than once. I try to keep him engaged in the conversation, and resist Steve's efforts to focus the topics on people and events Ray has no interest in, but Ray is uncommonly quiet and doesn't respond.

After lunch, we both take advantage of Steve's indoor bathroom to shower and shave. The feel of hot water on my skin is a heady luxury, and I take my time, since it's a mere two hours to Yellowknife, and the days are getting long.

When I emerge from the bathroom, Steve gives an appreciative whistle.

"Now that's much more the ticket. That's the Ben I remember," he says in a tone of possessive affection. I see Ray jerk into movement by the window, and am appalled at the flush that rises on my already-warm skin.

"I assure you, I am no longer he," I mutter stiffly to Steve. His attitude is beginning to seriously grate on my nerves. "Time changes everyone, and everything." I hope he hears the warning.

It is a foolish hope. Steve was never very good with nuance, which he demonstrates amply by chuckling in a patronizing manner before having the audacity to pat me on the cheek. I pull back and straighten to guard-duty posture. Suddenly, I wish I could have found another alternative to this arrangement.

The only hope is to end it as quickly as possible. To that end, I turn to Ray and say, "Ray, if you don't mind I'd like to discuss the monetary aspects with Steve."

Ray frowns at me but takes my cue. "I'll just go say g'bye to the team." He stalks to the door and leaves, Diefenbaker by his side. The wind that kicks inside in the wake of their departure feels like ice. I have a terrible feeling our last day together will be anything but pleasant for both of us, and my heart sinks in my chest.

It is with no patience at all that I turn and address myself to Steve, but I make an effort to keep my tone civil.

"Thank you for your assistance with the team, Steve, and for the ride. We didn't discuss payment on the phone—"

"I'm sure we can make an arrangement that's...pleasing to us both," he says, stepping closer. He has a seductive smile on his lips, but his brown eyes are slitted and almost calculating. I remember that look all too well, and only now finally recognize it for what it is. He is nothing that I thought he was. All I had known of him before was cast through the innocent, boyish filter of hero-worship and a desire to be closer to my father's esteem, if only by proxy. But the man that my father had admired so greatly is nothing but a selfish opportunist.

I step back and pull a folded sheet from my pocket. "I checked the standard boarding rates at a few places in Yellowknife. They seem quite reasonable. And, of course, I'll pay gas for the round trip into town."

His smile has grown set, but he shakes his head and makes a clicking sound. "Really, Ben." He takes another step forward and leans in. I have to restrain myself from shoving him backward. He puts his hand on my shoulder, but it starts drifting almost immediately toward my neck. "Still so proper. I really thought I'd loosened you up..."

"Enough, Steven." I stiff-arm him away, fury burning an unfamiliar path in my chest. I'm surprised by how easy it is to force him back. I've gained at least twenty pounds of muscle since the last time we were this physically close.

He staggers a little, and bitterness twists his face. But he doesn't say anything in response, and the hint of shame behind his eyes eases my anger.

"Let's just settle the rate." This time, when I offer the sheet, he takes it and unfolds it.

"I'll take what Jackie K. takes. Everyone says she's fair."

"Done. It shouldn't be more than a month." I dig my wallet out and count out an advance, adding a generous approximation for the gas. Handing it over, I say, "If it takes longer, I'll wire you more."

"Fine." His jaw is clenched, but suddenly he sighs and rubs his forehead. "You really never have forgiven me for—"

"It's in the past," I say hurriedly.

He shakes his head stubbornly. "I didn't mean to hurt you, Ben. You were...so young, I didn't realize just _how _young until it was too late. But you were pretty good at hiding things—"

"Please." I can barely get the word out. "I don't want to talk about this—"

I look away as I speak, and I see the front door is standing ajar. I'm not sure what drew my eyes to it, maybe a slight motion, but I have a sudden, overwhelming fear that Ray is on the other side of it.

"Thank you for lunch, and the hot water," I say. "I'd like us to get on the road as soon as possible. We don't have reservations in Yellowknife, so I'm a little anxious to get us settled."

"Sure," he says, sounding weary and old. "Get your gear while I warm up the jeep." He now seems as eager as I am to end the encounter, because he grabs his jacket and heads toward the door, which opens as he approaches.

It's Ray, of course. I can't read anything on his face as he comes in and stands aside to let Steve pass.

"Ray, pack up your things. We're heading out."

He just stands there staring at me. His eyes are impenetrable, the warm blue now frosted with an unknowable emotion. He is, perhaps, waiting for me to say something, but I have nothing at all to say. If he's overheard us, he's probably learned nothing more than Steve's actions at lunch had already revealed.

I walk over to my pack and start pushing my dirty clothing into it, followed by my toiletries. Behind me, I hear Ray beginning to do the same.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&lt;&lt;&lt;

The drive in is over bumpy, ice-caked ruts that take most of Steve's concentration and make conversation impossible. We focus on just holding on to our seats.

Steve drops us by the small cluster of hotels downtown. He doesn't get out of the car as we unload our belongings, and I'm glad. After I pile the last bags on the curb, I reach in the window to shake his hand.

"Thank you kindly for your help, Steve."

He holds my hand a moment too long, a wry smile on his mouth.

"My pleasure, Ben. I'll take good care of the dogs."

It's in the way of an apology, I know, and I take it as such, shaking his hand a final time before pulling free.

We're in luck as the first hotel we haul our gear into has an abundance of empty rooms to choose from. At the desk, I'm careful to ask Ray if he wants a room of his own, but he just frowns at me as if I've leaked the last of my marbles. So, I get us a room with two double beds.

While Diefenbaker sniffs about the room, Ray dumps his bags and then does a full-body landing on his bed, groaning with relief as he does so.

I can sympathize. Two months of camping out has given a new definition to the words "morning stiffness." My back has never been the same since it caught Ray Vecchio's bullet.

"Don't fall asleep," I caution him. "The restaurant will be closing soon, and I'm sure you don't want to eat pemmican tonight."

I expect a disgusted laugh, but he just opens his eyes and says, "We're ordering in." I hear Dief whine in agreement.

I'm startled. "But this is our last night. Don't you want to go out?"

He shoots me that same, impenetrable look as from the cabin and repeats evenly, "We're ordering in."

The cold in my stomach had never quite dissipated, but now it blooms larger. There is no escaping this, then. He will want to talk about it, and probably end our friendship more completely than separation ever would have.

"Fine," is all I say, and I take the menu from the phone table and drop it on his chest. "I'll have whatever you're having."

I go to the bathroom to clean up, hearing him negotiating in urgent tones with room service. The small smile on my face fades quickly as I stare at myself in the mirror. I try to leapfrog the coming agony and think of the future, of moving on, of the me I will someday soon be, alone with Diefenbaker as my sole companion once again. Out on the ice and the snow, self-sufficient as I once was, before I learned the luxury of anything else.

It seems impossible.

Instead, thoughts of Chicago intrude. Lieutenant Welsh's warm hand on my shoulder, his gravel affection in my ears. Turnbull's constancy, his innocent, eager friendship. Huey's sarcastic humor. Francesca's kindness and even her unstinting attentions. My adventures with Ray Vecchio, when he taught me the city and what it was to have a close human friend for the first time since childhood.

And Ray. Always Ray—frenetic, explosive, deep in complexity. His fondness for me, expressed in pats and claps and the occasional, delightful embrace.

How am I supposed to live without these things? Somehow, in the last three years, I have forgotten the easy habit of detachment, and the hard lesson of winter survival—nothing lasts except the cold.

"You gonna hide in there all night?" Ray's voice is muffled, but I hear a deeper emotion held tight in the reins.

I flush the toilet and come out to stand by the bureau facing the bed. There is a small, round table by the window, one chair tucked underneath. One of us will have to eat on the bed, I think idly, but Ray's eyes are burning the surface of my skin.

My hands automatically close behind my back. I face him as I would a superior officer.

_I have nothing to report, sir, _incredibly, stupidly, I want to say. But his eyes are trying to pull the truth right out of me.

He matches them with a too-gentle, "So. You and Steve." There is a familiar clinking as he plays with the chain on his wrist.__  
  
I widen my eyes, but he stops me with a gesture.

"Don't even try that shit with me, Fraser. I swear to God."

My chest deflates like a balloon with a pinhole. "Do we have to do this?" I find myself saying. "You're leaving tomorrow." The conclusion is so clear to me. Why end in ugliness what has been the best connection I have known?

But he looks frustrated. "You owe me the truth."

Eleventh hour madness. Or maybe not. I remember when my grandparents and I moved away from Inuvik, how Innusiq had been so angry about it at the end, and when I wanted to embrace him in farewell, how he pushed me away, saying, "_It's better if I am angry. It's easier this way_."

Maybe this will make it easier for Ray to say goodbye.

"Steve and I, yes."

Ray's eyes spark blue. "How did you swing it? Him being all the way up here?"

He must not have heard all of my conversation with Steve. I speak calmly, making my report. "It happened when I was eighteen, back at Depot. He was stationed nearby, and my father asked him to keep an eye on me. We became...involved. It ended badly, and I've hardly seen him since then."

Ray jumps up. His energy can never be contained for too long. He sweeps around the side of the bed and digs into his bag, coming up with a pack of gum. A faint smell of cinnamon tickles my nose when he unwraps a piece and sticks it in his mouth. I remember him complaining a few days ago that he was down to his last pack.

"You never said." The gum snaps in his mouth, evidence of his frustration. "In fact, you never say much of anything that's really important, Fraser. Don't you think you could have thrown in this little tidbit, in between caribou stories?"

My forehead aches and I rub at it. It's still not clear to me if this new knowledge of my sexual habits upsets him in some way.

I'm all too aware that society at large doesn't condone same-sex relationships. At the time, though, my confusion and pain were related more to the personal violation that any sort of physical intimacy represented. It was my first experience with such. I was too busy being upset at the rawness of the emotions inspired by sex to worry about any other implications.

"What about since then?" Ray asks. "What about Chicago?"

I realize I've turned away. I force myself to turn back and meet his gaze. "Chicago?" I don't understand.

"Yeah, in Chicago. I never saw you...unless you've been sneaking around or something." There it is again—accusation in his tone. I identify it and feel my heart sink.

The very idea of me prowling the streets at night for sexual partners is laughable, but I don't feel like laughing. Does he really know me so little? If so, it is my own fault. And I am tired of being misunderstood.

"There's been no one since...Victoria." I say her name with some reluctance. "You never met her. She was...before you arrived. And after her, well...I'm not often attracted to someone that way, and the few times I have been were utterly hopeless cases. So..." I'm angry now, and not sure exactly why. "If I've answered all your questions...?"

"You're saying he was the only guy," Ray persists, disbelief in his voice.

"Yes," I say stiffly. "And Victoria the only woman. Is that clear enough?" My face is hot, and Ray is wavering in my vision. I turn away again. I need to ask him if this affects our friendship. I cannot ask him. I'm furious that he's pried this out of me for no obvious reason, without giving me any assurances that we are still...what we are. That he still sees me in the same way.

"Fraser—" he starts to say, and then there's a knock at the door. I hear him walking over and opening it, muttering with the waiter, the clink of glasses and plates sliding on a tray as he places it on the bed behind me. The food smells of grease. Diefenbaker scrabbles up from the corner, but instead of rocketing toward the tray, he brushes against me, giving me an insistent bump.

I sigh and join him at the bed. Ray has ordered us all cheeseburgers and fries, which I find not at all surprising. If I had a nickel for every time he griped about missing cheeseburgers while we were on our trip, I'd be a wealthy man, indeed.

Taking my plate, I seat myself at the small table and sample a French fry. It's soggy and slightly pasty, no match for the fries at Max's, Ray's favorite diner. But he has started eating hungrily, his jaw muscles working furiously.

Diefenbaker has already consumed the top of his bun and is gnawing at the burger meat. I have no appetite at all, but I eat a little, dutifully, my grandmother's voice echoing that I can sulk all I want, but never let good food go to waste. She had no patience with my "moods," as she called them, and I'd learned quite early after coming to stay with them that I was expected to eat what was put in front of me and ignore the knot in my stomach caused by missing my mother so much. So much.

Why didn't she speak to me in the mineshaft? I wish I could have heard a single word, enough to bring back the sound of her voice, which has been lost to me for many years now.

But the touch of her hand was a gift I will never forget.

Memories are important. Shortly they will be all I have left of Ray. This Hungry Ray—voracious and single-minded; Proud Ray, his eyes gleaming when we stood victorious on the deck of the _Bounty_; Determined Ray, learning how to harness the team, mouth moving wordlessly as if he had to speak to memorize the steps; and Gentle Ray, his hands strong under my arms as he helped me to my feet after Warfield had me beaten.

So many Rays, and I will miss all of them. He clears his throat, and I feel my neck stiffen.

"So, why didn't you tell me?" He's trapped me in the corner of his eye.

I crack my neck, trying to ease the tension. "Forgive me for not sharing one of the more painful memories of my life—"

"You mean like pissing yourself in front of a bank robber and a room full of strangers?" Oh, that mocking tone.

"Yes, well. I think we both know, of the two of us, who has the most courage." That inspires a snort of laughter from him. I'm not sure why.

"You gotta be kidding. Mr. 'Hello, Armed Felon, it's me, the walking target'?"

"That's different."

"Different how?" He cocks his head, and I'm suddenly released from the web of his gaze when he jumps off the bed and dumps his empty plate on the tray. Diefenbaker walks over to give it a disappointed sniff.

"So, maybe this'll help." Ray stands over me and raises his hand, thumb and index finger shaped into a gun. "Give up the goods," he growls in his Steve McQueen voice.

I meet his eyes, expecting humor, but his face is set seriously.

"I mean it, copper." He makes a jabbing motion with his finger. "Talk."

Oddly enough, the meaningless threat helps. I imagine he is armed. I imagine Ray will shoot me if I don't tell him what he wants to know, and the tightness in my chest eases.

"I met him at Depot." I can't get much volume out. "My father introduced us on one of his rare visits. He seemed to admire Steve so much, as if he were the son he'd wished he'd had." I'm not as calm as I thought, because I hear my voice crack, and it feels like I'm distanced from my body, as if I'm watching from far away.

Ray sits on the corner of the bed and waves his finger at me, urging me to continue.

"Steve was so...confident, and I suppose I was flattered to have his attention. He started to drag me out, away from my studies, taking me places I'd never been, inviting me to parties. He liked to...to show me off, I suppose."

"I'll bet he did." Ray sounded angry.

"He treated me very kindly," I hasten to assure him. "It wasn't until he...made advances...that I realized his interest was more than brotherly. And I'd never been in a situation like that." I feel the blood rushing to my ears. They feel like beacons of my embarrassment. But Ray's finger is still cocked at me, resting on his thigh. I can't look at his face.

"Did you want him? Like that?"

"Yes, I...but no. I mean, yes, I did, but I found the experience...overwhelming. And he had no patience for my...hesitancy." I pause and drink some of my water while I word the next part carefully. "The last time, things...went further than I liked, and after I went back to barracks and thought about it, I decided I wanted to end it. He didn't take it well."

I can hear Ray's breathing, so familiar from our journey, a constant, comforting sound in the tent at night. But right now it is rapid, agitated.

"Ray—"

"Go on," he says roughly, "finish it."

I smooth my eyebrow. "Well, we had words, ill ones. He threatened to tell my father about the affair. I told him it would do him more damage than it would me, since I'd never had my father's regard to begin with. Steve's self-interest protected me, in the end, because he never spoke of it to anyone, as far as I know."

Ray is quiet for a long time, and finally I risk looking over to see his face. His expression is a confusion to me. Anger and, yes, disappointment, is evident. But also a wistful sadness that pulls the corners of his eyes.

And there is no disgust, which relieves me.

"So, I guess that's why, then."

"Why what?"

"Why you never said anything."

"Well, yes. Of course. I told you it wasn't a happy memory. I'm not inclined to share such—"

"No, not that." He waves his hands in a familiar, impatient gesture. Ray's hands are always so expressive. "I mean, why you never..." He motions between us, the meaning unmistakable, and I feel my blood freeze.

No. It's not possible that he's known all along what I feel toward him. He would have pushed me away. Or, at the very least, during any of the countless times when he was angry with me, he would have thrown it in my face.

Suddenly I have a keen desire to leave, to walk away, _now_, before this conversation can go any further. I take one step toward the door, and immediately he levitates off the bed and stands before me, blocking my path.

"Oh, no, you don't, partner."

_Move._ It is a command to him, and a plea to myself. _Move, now. Get out_.

He raises one hand, but doesn't touch me. His eyes are warning me. Panic pumps heat into my arms, my throat, speeding my heart.

"This is the end of the line," Ray whispers, his whiskey-rough voice carrying the same threat echoed in his eyes. "We've run out of time, Fraser."

"Edge of snow," I say, suppressing a hysterical laugh.

He nods, understanding. His eyes seem to soften, and finally he touches me—not an angry grip, but a gentle one.

His kindness breaks me. "Why are you _doing_ this?"

He gives me a heartbreaking smile. "Don't you know?"

God, the possibility is there, in his gentle grip, in the warmth of the blue stare that won't leave my face. The mere idea is enough to seal my mouth, and I wonder why he thinks I should be the one to speak. Ray is the one with the words when it comes to these matters. He is always the one to bring up the personal issues between us, to ferret out the misunderstandings and broach impossible subjects.

Therein lies the answer to my question, I realize. I must speak, because he always does.

He gives me a gentle shake. "Just talk to me, Fraser."

"I don't know if I can," I say, buying time. I am anxious, because Ray has never had an overabundance of patience, and I don't know how to find the words I need. "I don't_._ This is always impossible for—this is too hard for me to say without—" My jaws lock shut on the meaningless words. Ray's head is cocked. "Please. I—don't let this be the only way— Just because I'm hopeless." My voice rises in desperation. "Just because I can't—"

Ray raises his hands as if I'm armed and dangerous. "Whoa, there. Just...whoa. Take your time."

I realize I am panting, and I try to control it, ease the crazy sounds of my own breath. "In my mind," I say after I have air again, "I tell you things, Ray. So many things, I'm babbling. And you hear them, and you..."

"I can wait for it," Ray says, and he sounds so _patient_. Have I changed him? Will I break him with my silence? I hear the words I should say, that others do: so transparent, like water, without taste. The real words are stones and silt, lodging on the dam in my throat.

Ray's head is tilted as if he's listening. "Try one, Fraser. Just one."

To pick one out of the many teeming in my brain? It seems impossible. "Snow," I say, pulling one at random.

Ray looks puzzled, but he nods. "And?"

"I am snow," I whisper. "Snow, and I will freeze you."

He shakes his head, but I go on, his resistance carrying me somehow.

"Snow," I insist. "Snow over rocks, breaking the runners, slicing the paws—"

"Fraser. You aren't snow." He's looking at me as if he thinks I've gone crazy. "You got more..." he waves his arms in a gesture I can't translate, "heat, passion for stuff, total obsessiveness, than anyone I know. You just have to let it out, that's all." He pokes me once in the chest, his finger hard against my sternum. "Snow, you ain't."

He doesn't understand. I try to explain, "I have a passion for justice, yes. For _things_, abstract concepts, the proper alignment of tent pegs during a summer storm—"

"And me." He crosses his arms, a smug dare.

I stare at him.

"And _me_," he insists, uncrossing his arms to flat-palm me, a gentle push.

My mouth opens without my permission. "And you."

"There." Flash of grin, brilliant. I can see relief there, too. "Was that hard to say?"

But he doesn't leave me time to answer. He crowds in on me, and I can feel the warmth of him all along my front, and smell the clean smell of him, slightly wooly from his long johns, musk dancing underneath. I think, _God, he's going to—_ And then he does, he leans in and glances his lips against mine for the briefest moment, burning them, and then puts his arms around me and pulls me in close. His lips travel over my cheek, and the only sound I can hear is my heartbeat thudding in my ears.

The room falls away and his arms tighten.

"You still with me?" he whispers in my ear, making me shudder.

"With you," I choke out, but if my body is here, my mind is not, it is reeling skyward to turn and dive like a stooping eagle. It is just as I remember it, the first time I was kissed, the first time I felt this plummeting, free-falling terror and delight.

Oddly enough, I hear Dief whine suddenly, and that is what pulls me back to my senses. I feel Ray's palm traveling up and down my back, pressing the soft flannel against my skin.

"Wanna kiss you," he confesses. "But I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"Why not?" I hear petulant disappointment in my voice.

Ray pulls back to look at me. "Fraser, you're shaking to beat the band."

My face warms. "Maybe you should pull a gun on me," I mutter.

He gives a startled bark of laughter, and cocks his finger at me. "Give up the goods."

So, I kiss him.

He's not expecting it, I can tell, because his mouth startles on a gasp and jerks awkwardly beneath mine. He recovers quickly, though, and leans into it. I keep my mouth closed but move it against his, and his lips part to lock against mine before nibbling gently.

_Ray_, I think. _This is Ray._ The thought is startling in its purity. My arms have obeyed some primitive impulse and are crushing him against me, folding us tightly together. He whispers, "Fraser" against my mouth, and his tongue prods between my lips until I take it in.

He tastes of French fries. And salt. And still the hint of cinnamon. His tongue slides deeper, and he bumps his hips forward, and I feel his erection press against me. Startled, I jerk away, and he releases me immediately.

"Okay, easy."

"No, I—" I grab for him, but he dances back a step.

"No rush, Fraser."

I stare at him. "No rush? No _rush_?"

Ray laughs ruefully. "Well, I guess you got a point." He blows out a sigh and rubs the top of his head, mussing the dark blond strands. "It's just—I don't want to mess this up."

"Ray. I remind you that you're leaving in," I consult the wall clock, trying to focus, "Fourteen hours."

And suddenly it comes home to me. The thought had been a bass note for days, sounding my despair, but had faded during recent events. Now it is back with a vengeance, turning my stomach with the inevitability of it. Ray is leaving.

"Yeah, about that..." He peers at me, his features tight. "What would you say to, uh, coming back with me?"

"Come back?" I parrot like an idiot. The thought hadn't occurred to me. Why hadn't the thought occurred to me?

"Fraser?"

My family is gone, except for Maggie, and I hardly know her. Except for Diefenbaker, and he chooses to be with me, wherever I am.

There is nothing else for me here but _here._ And it will always be here, waiting.

"Fraser, okay. Okay, don't freak on me. I know this is—shit!" He turns away, spins back. "I saw you, okay? I saw the way you looked when we first got here, like a kid at Christmas. Happy like I've never seen you, but Fraser—" My eyes track his hand, which comes up to touch my cheek, there and then gone, fingertips trailing over my lips. "We're just getting started," he says finally. "We got a shot. You know?"

Pleading. Ray is pleading with me. Why did I let it come to this? Why didn't I think?

"Ray." My voice is a broken thing. "Yes, Ray."

"I mean...yeah?" His eyes are too wide. Too blue. "Really?"

"Really. Yes." A smile takes my lips, stretching them strangely. He smiles back, the wonder filling his face quickly overtaken by glee.

"Yeah! Okay! That's what I'm talking about." He rushes at me, powering me backward in a staggering embrace. My rear end hits the bureau, and he is solid against me, heavy in my arms. "Fraser. Jesus."

I hold him. I'm inside myself this time, all the way, and I'm holding Ray. All I can do is repeat, "Yes...yes,"and "yes," and listen to his delighted laugh, and feel it shake my ribs.

After a while he leans back, not too far, and clasps my head, pulling our mouths together. He kisses me with short, exuberant kisses until I make a sound, half-laugh, half-choke.

Then he releases me and says, mock-seriously, "You, my friend, need a plane ticket."

&gt;&gt;&gt;&lt;&lt;&lt;

It's not as simple as that, of course. I had planned on reporting to the RCMP headquarters in Yellowknife in two days. And I have no idea whether my old posting at the Consulate is still available after my extended leave of absence. I start babbling my concerns to Ray as I eat the cold burger I hadn't the stomach for earlier.

Ray keeps telling me, "Shut up, Fraser," and "Quit your worrying, will ya?"

Of course, all these practicalities are trivial in the larger scheme, and a perfect cover for my very real fear that I've gone completely insane, because I have no idea how to be with someone as, apparently, Ray wants to be with me. Together.

The last time I loved someone, she tried to destroy my friend, and shot my wolf. I can't help but think, regardless of Ray Vecchio's scathing denouncement of her character ever after, that I was at least partially responsible for driving her to it.

This Ray, though, seems oblivious to the mess he's getting himself into.

After he gets off the phone with the airline, he disappears into the bathroom. When he returns, he smells like soap, mint toothpaste and shaving foam.

The detective in me immediately identifies why he's shaved—the skin around my lips is still tender from his earlier kisses. It touches me that he noticed and took steps, but it also fills me with some trepidation. I'm not sure what he expects from me.

I take his place in the bathroom and shower, and then I shave as well, although I don't really need to, since I had already done so at Steve's.

I think about Steve as I brush my teeth. All I can remember from our lovemaking was my own fumbling efforts. It disappointed him that I wouldn't take him into my mouth, and part of me has always wondered if his callousness later was an unconscious form of punishment.

But I shouldn't be thinking about that now. Ray is waiting.

I pull on a clean pair of long johns, soft and worn. When I come out of the bathroom he is propped up against the head of his bed, a towel around his waist, the remote control in his hand. He's still wet from his shower, and clear droplets dampen the pale hairs on his chest. He looks up, and all I can think is how beautiful he is to me, so relaxed and graceful, so easy within his skin.

I have to turn away. I start rubbing my hair with a towel as I go to my bag to pack my dirty clothes.

"Hey," Ray says quietly. He's suddenly behind me. I turn, and he tugs at the sleeve of my long johns. "You really think you need these?"

"I wouldn't want to catch a chill, Ray."

He nods as if he doesn't believe me. He's right, of course. The familiar clothing is more in the way of a shield. My eyes drop to Ray's chest, and I look at the dark nipples that seem to be begging for my touch_._

"Of course, it does seem...adequately temperate in here," I say.

He smiles. He takes a step back, and I turn away, unbuttoning my long johns with shaky fingers. As I shrug out of the sleeves, I can feel his breath brushing the back of my neck. Ray's hands land on my arms and start moving up to my shoulders, and I sigh, halting my fingers.

"You're so smooth," he says, sounding wondering. His hands slide around to my chest, and I shiver when his palms pass over me.

"You don't think it's...odd?" I've always felt self-conscious about my lack of body hair, another sign of the strangeness that has always been in me.

He turns me to face him, the sleeves of my long johns hanging about my waist. "You kiddin'? I like it." He runs his hands over my chest, down my ribs. "So smooth," he whispers again, "except for right here." His thumbs rub back and forth over my hardened nipples. I hold my breath.

"C'mon." He draws me to his bed. His towel is threatening to slip off his slim hips, and I can see the shadow of the cleft of his buttocks, the tight muscles moving under the terry cloth as he drops my hand and clambers onto the mattress. He sits up against the headboard, propping a pillow behind his back, one long, lean thigh spread over the edge, the movement pulling his erection into relief beneath the towel. I can't lift my eyes from the evidence of his arousal, and the dark gap of the material between his legs.

"Gettin' an eyeful there, Frase?" His teasing voice calls my eyes back to his face. The usual half-smirk is tugging at his lips, but his eyes are kind. So kind.

"Not enough of one," I say boldly, but there's a waver in my voice, and his eyelids dip.

He gestures me over, and I climb onto the bed to sit cross-legged in the bracket of his thighs. We both lean forward just so, and we are kissing again. This I can't get enough of—the taste of his mouth, his hands cupping my cheeks so tenderly. I thought Ray would make love the same way he hurtles through his life, furiously fast and fearless. I'm humbled by the gift of his honesty, this gentle side, which he shows to so few. I am one of the few, now.

As our kiss grows more heated, he begins to moan into me. The vibrations travel inside me and down to where my erection is pushing at the soft material of my long johns. His hands come up and push me backward, and I fall to the mattress. He follows me down, his lips caressing my neck, my chest, wandering to suck at one of my nipples.

I'm losing my mind, I think. The pressure of him, of his weight, and his lips, and tongue, and oh, Lord, his teeth, makes my heart pound frighteningly. I gasp a protest, raising my limp arms to hold his head from my chest.

He looks up at me. The blue of his eyes is glazed over with passion, but it clears, and he pushes himself back up, then takes my hands and pulls me until I am sitting once again.

"Nice and easy," he whispers. I'm somewhat ashamed at my too-powerful reaction, but the racing of my heart begins to slow, and I'm grateful. I try to show him by taking the initiative. I rub my cheek against his, then trace his jaw with my tongue until I reach his ear and can nibble on the lobe. He groans his approval, so I continue, down the long neck, over to the ball of his shoulder. My fingers begin to explore the wiry expanse of his chest. I brush his nipples with the backs of my knuckles, and he arches his back.

I pull away to look at him. The haze is back in his eyes, and a flush has risen on his neck. He is so beautiful. I want to keep loving him. This much I can do. I don't feel clumsy or shy when my hands are on him, when my tongue is tasting him.

I scramble back to lie on my belly between his legs, and I prop myself up on my elbows so I can hook my fingers into the waist of his towel. I tug once, experimentally.

"Yeah?" he says, and gives an odd little laugh. And then he releases the edge that is tucked by his side.

I pull the towel away, and get a real eyeful this time. Ray's penis, proud and hard and flushed.

I am not the boy I was. I have since loved a woman with my mouth until her sharp cries filled my ears. I want to hear what Ray sounds like when he is lost in the same pleasure.

I bend my head and sniff deeply, taking in his scent, my cheek pressed to his testicles. He moans wildly as I nuzzle him. Then I grip his erection, pulling down slightly so I can put my mouth on the head.

"Jesus, Fraser!" Startled delight.

I'm delighted too. I feel his thigh trembling next to my face, and I pull away to encourage him to spread his legs further, to slouch until he is comfortable. The angle is perfect. I lower my head again, and this time I take more of him into me and begin to suck. He whimpers, and I am lost.

I don't know why I resisted this particular act with Steve. Perhaps because the power between us was already so unbalanced. But Ray and I have established a give and take. I respect him so much—his abilities, his agile mind, his strength. And I feel he respects me as well, even when he tells me with constant, rough affection that I am a freak.

Perhaps only a freak would love what I am doing now, sucking him, loving him with my lips and tongue, gently catching the ridge of his crown with the edge of my lower teeth. But I do love it, and not only for the groans and gasps and the cries coming from him, but for my own pleasure in the act, in the sweet, musky taste of him filling my mouth.

He puts his hands down on my head, lightly, playing through my hair like a sensuous prayer. I take him deeper, and he cries my name, pushing upward with his hips. He pulses in my mouth, a heated throb, and then he begins to come, cutting off my air as he flows into me. I struggle to accept it, thinking of the _Henry Allen_ and our long foray down the submerged corridor. I can hold my breath a long time, I think, and I let him come and come, thick brine in my mouth. At last he stills, and I pull away, swallowing frantically until I can gasp for breath.

"Sorry, sorry." His hands are still in my hair, petting apologetically, but I look up at him and smile.

He shakes his head in disbelief. "You have come on your chin."

I feel myself flush, but I can't stop smiling.

"Come up here," he says roughly, and I push myself to kneel in front of him so he can claim my lips.

He does more than claim them. He licks them carefully clean, his tongue sweet and soft and licking all around my chin and mouth. The slick attention makes my penis jerk demandingly. I make a sound.

"Like that? You want my mouth on you?"

I shake my head. No, I don't want him down there, tending to me, when this closeness is already so much of what I need. I take his hand, my own trembling slightly, and bring it to cover the hardness in my groin. His fingers explore me through the soft material, his thumb rubbing at the damp spot right at the head, making me gasp.

"Okay," Ray says. He prods me, pushing me until I am lying on my side, and then he attacks the last buttons of my long johns and pulls them off and away.

I am naked. I can feel his eyes on me, and my heart thumps unevenly when I see his slow, sexy smile.

"You're a work of art, you know that? Like one of those Greek statues."

I bury my hot face in the pillow and hear him chuckle softly. I feel the warmth as his mouth nears my unshielded ear, and he whispers, "You're beautiful. Just deal with it."

Then his hand is taking hold of my erection with a strong, sure grip that makes me moan into the pillow.

"Come here," he says, and I turn my face to accept his deep, sloppy kiss as he begins to stroke me.

I can feel the pleasure of it heat my entire body—his hand pulling, pushing the foreskin down and then up, his thumb rubbing just below the crown. So different from my own hand. So much better. I'm shocked at how quickly he is bringing me to the edge with his confident, sensual touch. It's as if his hand knows me.

The thought makes me shudder, and I hear myself whimper. I pull my mouth away to pant into the hollow where his neck meets his shoulder. My breathing is cavernous, loud and rough. Over it, I can hear his encouragement as he continues the beautiful rhythm of his hand.

"That's it, baby. Come on, Fraser, give it up. Let it go."

My balls draw up hard and tight, tingling in warning, and I hold my breath to better hear my body as it releases wave after wave, pleasure upon pleasure, wetting my stomach and Ray's hand.

He soothes me, kissing my temple, the crown of my head, as I let out a long, shuddering gasp.

"God, Fraser." He sounds exultant.

I nod weakly. My muscles quiver with occasional tremors as I continue to drift in the wake of my orgasm.

Ray uses his towel to wipe off his hand. He begins to swipe it on my stomach but I take it from him to do the honors. Then he tucks himself beside me and slings a leg around me, hooking me closer. His fine leg-hair tickles my thigh.

He kisses me, but I'm too lethargic to return it as enthusiastically as I would wish. This makes him laugh, and he puts his arm around me, stroking my back.

"Blew your tiny mind," he says complacently.

"Yes. I'm afraid all my marbles are irretrievably lost."

Ray's laughter huffs against my face. "Oh, man. And we're barely getting started. So much more I wanna do with you," he says. His hand moves down to slide suggestively over the top of my buttocks.

"Hey," he says. "Don't tense up like that."

I try to distract him with a kiss, but he pulls his face away.

"No rush, Fraser. Remember? We're going back home. Plenty of time to figure out what's what, and what we like or don't like. And if you don't want that—"

But this kind of honest talk is beyond my abilities. I burrow into his neck.

"Okay. Okay," he says. "It's all good."

He rolls away long enough to flip off the light. When he turns back I take possession of my favorite space again, the hard muscle of his shoulder beneath my lips, my nose full of the smell of him.

_Plenty of time_, I tell myself. We have made it so there will be.

As I drift into sleep, I think: I have never before known what I know now—that a person can fill another person until there is no space left. And where there was cold emptiness before, now there is warmth.

And an end to snow.  


  


**Author's Note:**

> Caution: there is an implication of coerced sex in Fraser's past. No graphic description, but if implications are a trigger for you, please consider this a trigger caution.


End file.
